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by auraspirit157
Summary: What happens before you play? The Assassins and Templars of our beloved multiplayer have a bit more to say then we see; they intend to keep it that way. T for violence, blood and minor swearing.
1. Chapter 1

Loading… Chapter 1

"Yeah, well I have to go to work."  
"I got to go too, its late here"  
"Aw fine. See ya."  
"Bye"  
"Later"

-Game Session Ended—

-Xbox Power off—

_What happens before we play?_

-Xbox Power On—

-Aligning Animus Parameters—

The Huntsman appeared in that familiar white room. He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to shake off the horrific stiffness of being de-synced. However, he considered himself privileged to have a Player that frequently revisited the operation.

In the next few moments, the people he unfortunately had the displeasure of being stuck with appeared. He watched as they all preformed their usual rituals to become accustomed to being awake. The Lady Maverick brushed the small strand of red hair away, staring contemptuously at the syncing residents. She never seemed to be in a good mood anymore, given that he had taken her spot at the Player's favorite character. As it _should_ be of course. Obviously, the Player had chosen him as a favorite when she became better at the game.

He didn't deserve anything less.

Generally, the Assassins and the Templars, as in their nature, stayed away from one another. Despite some contempt for a couple of members of his own association, he was a loyal Assassin all the same, and was willing to protect his brothers and sisters. Yet, he still allowed himself a bit of leeway before hurrying to their defense. Especially when some members tend to get on his nerves…

As if on beat with his annoyances, The Robber synced into view.

Only God was aware of how powerful a hatred The Huntsman had for this…child. He was almost not worth the energy to despise. The fact that he, next to Maverick and The Carpenter, was a favored character was beyond his comprehension. The only thing that mar slightly swayed his opinion about the thief was his amusing tensions with his sister: The Lady Maverick. That, at least, gave him some minor entertainment for a couple of minutes, which was the least he could do for being such and annoying brat. It did not help that his Player had achieved the Wanted high score among her clan through the boy. He found it interesting and equally enraging that he believed it to be _his _doing.

It was beginning to hurt his brain thinking of it, so he decided to stray away from his unhealthy hatred for a bit. The others, now used to their awareness, began to wander to their casual activities. Conversation usually occurred through the people of the same association or arguments between opposites. The Native Americans, yet, seemed to carry on decent conversation among themselves without the constraints of their separate followings. At least, he believed that is what they were doing. The three that existed normally spoke in their native tongues. They could be throwing death threats and The Huntsman would be none the wiser.

The Sharpshooter sat in his corner, polishing the blade of his musket, and speaking in a low whisper to The Pioneer. The man was not a part of his Player's party, but the clan leader often played as him, and so he appeared. He never liked him, his pretentious calm and silence made him pathetic. It didn't matter if he was a special character, or if his kill streak was far beyond his.

He was nothing. Like every other person he knew.

"I know what you're doing, and it's not hurting anyone."

The Huntsman turned to face The Carpenter, who sat directly behind him. He refused to admit that such a large bumbling man caught him by surprise. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talkin' about the way you look at 'em, like you're above 'em." The Carpenter ran a hand along the large, gavel-like hammer he was recently given as a new weapon, "You may be self-taught, and I got a lot of respect for ya, but you are just like the rest of us."

"Are you insinuating that you are better than me? Because you are most certainly not—"

"I didn't say I was better, I said you are equal to the rest of us. Our Player may choose you the most but their score doesn't give ya any supremacy 'ere."

"You know nothing about me."

"True, but I know a lot about people," The Carpenter said before standing swiftly and walking away.

"Knowing what brains look like when you smash them out doesn't count as knowing people!" The Huntsman called after the departing man, before muttering under his breath in French, "He knows nothing…idiot."

"Tensions with your false Creed, boys?" another voice that could only belong to The Lady Maverick chimed in from the other end of the room.

Huntsman looked over at her. He couldn't deny her beauty, but he had no interest in a Templar, especially one related to The Robber.

"No one needs your input, sister," The Robber hissed, leaning against the wall. The way he spat out the phrase: 'sister' almost made The Huntsman laugh.

"Aw, I'm just trying to protect you from the wrong things!" Maverick smiled acidly, "Why so bitter again?"

"Oh here we go," The Carpenter sighed as Robber's face flared.

"_You sold me—" _

"We've heard this, lad."

"…_For a can of soup!" _

"What? What did you say? I sold you for _what _now?" Maverick challenged, leaning forward as if to hear better.

"_SOUP! _A God damned can of _soup!" _

_ "_That's _right._ I did. But hey, look on the bright side. If I hadn't of done that, then the Assassins wouldn't have another member with a tragic backstory to add to their dysfunctional brotherhood."

The Strong Man cut in with a deep, baritone voice, "There's more of us then you, Maverick, and I doubt we're any less dysfunctional then the Commander and his bratty daughter over there."

At the mention of his name, The Commander lifted his head. He glared at the Strong Man, annoyed at the comment about his daughter. The Huntsman lacked very much interest in the family's problems, but he knew the Redcoat was the 'bratty daughter' who Strong Man mentioned. He turned his head to see her holding a knife poised to be thrown, but her father caught her hand, "Eleanor, don't bother with them."

"He called me a brat, father!" she yanks her arm away, "I shouldn't be referred to something so childish!"

"You know, she's right." The voice came from The Sharpshooter. Apparently the ongoing arguments had caught his attention.

"_God forbid," _the Huntsman thought rather bitterly, "_that he doesn't get his two cents."_

The Strong Man, surprised by the Sharpshooter's interjection, looked at him. "You _agree?_"

"Oh yes, God forbid you have a man with sense on your side." The Redcoat continued with a mocking smirk.

The Sharpshooter's voice was cool and quiet, "Oh yes, you don't deserve any sort of childish insults. You deserve proper, adult name calling like the _precious_ little _bitch _that you are."

It was silent for a minute, but the Huntsman himself found he was the one that broke the quiet with a barely held back chuckle. He had to admit, that was a good one. The Redcoat, on the other hand, was far from amused.

She pulls out her sword, "Say that again, Assassin, and you'll get a blade where no man ever wants a blade to be!"

Members on both sides attempted to calm the coming explosion that was about to happen, the Carpenter being one to stand between her and the Sharpshooter, "Woah there love, don't get fired up. "

"Get out of my way you Irish coward, this doesn't involve you!" The Redcoat's fire was spreading, making this far more interesting the Huntsman, but much more dangerous as well.

"The Carpenter's eyes narrowed, "What'd you say, love?" he unsheathes the sledgehammer he favored as a weapon, "I didn't quite catch that."

The Huntsman watched as the Redcoat stepped back a bit, intimidated by the sheer size of the Irishman. What the Player doesn't know is that while they are all of equal strength in the game, the Redcoat wouldn't have a chance of defeating the Carpenter in a direct confrontation here, when the game was far from even.

The tension cooled, but only for a second, as the Commander wasn't willing to let the death threat to his kin slide, "You touch my daughter, and you answer to me, immigrant."

"Ah, go kiss the feet of your King you British lapdog!" The Carpenter reluctantly sheaths his weapon, "That's all you're good for!"

"Don't talk to my father that way!" The Redcoat's voice rises over them.

"I wasn't talking to you, girl! Then again, the same goes for you! You're just like him; all the lobsters are the same brownnosing crown-lovers that terrorized me for no good reason!"

"I can think of a couple good reasons!" The Commander was inching closer.

"There are a couple good reasons why you shouldn't be breathing either!"

Just when it looked like the three were about to clash, a smoke bomb exploded between them, sending them all into a fit of coughing. Both sides took the distraction as an opportunity to pull back their respected members from the near fight.

Despite what could've happened, the Huntsman was disappointed. He was waiting for the Carpenter to kick the two Templars where it would hurt for a while, but even that luxury faded with the smoke. Yet, he was curious as to who threw the bomb in the first place.

"Alright," he found himself saying, "Who ruined the opportunity for some entertainment around here?"

He didn't have to look far, as the Independent was right near him, poised to throw another bomb in case tensions broke out again. She directs her attention to the Huntsman, rolling her eyes. "All of you are ridiculous. You all know full well what would happen if any of us were killed outside the sessions." She glares at the Huntsman, "Especially _you."_

The Huntsman frowned. "_Damn," _he thought," _I forgot about that…" _He was lying to himself; he remembered the occurrence clearly. The Preacher, who prided himself in slaughtering any Assassin he could, was one enemy The Huntsman always enjoyed murdering in the sessions. Nothing annoyed him more than a hypocritical, religious nutcase. His rather minor annoyance with the priest rose to a blood rage not too long ago. The confrontation resulted in a massive glitch in the session, forcing the Player into limited mood while the system recovered. The Player was notified that it was a kink in Ubisoft services, but in reality, The Huntsman as well as the Preacher needed time to heal. Secretly, he was glad they were seperated. If either of them had been killed-

"Both of you were almost gone for good." The Independent finished his thoughts, "Permanently erased from the Player's game."

"And the only the Lord forgive us if the Player lost her _favorite_ character."

The Huntsman, whipped around, facing the Preacher, who apparently felt the need to add his own opinion, "She wouldn't have lost me because _you _would've been the one who was terminated. And since she never picks you, I doubt it would be much of a loss at all."

Looking up from under his circular hat, The Preacher glared at him, "You don't want this to end badly for you, Huntsman."

"I bet you're waiting for the chance to get rid of me anyway. Not that it would make much a difference in your popularity."

"I have nothing to lose, then-"

_"Searching for game sessions…" _a robotic, female voice droned, "_Searching…"_

The Strong Man took this opportunity to place a hand on The Huntsman's shoulder, urging him not to start this now. The Huntsman glared at the Templar he was about to snap at before reluctantly moving away. If the Player had any say in this, she would agree with him in saying the Preacher had no place here.

_"Session found. Avatars stand by." _The woman's voice droned again, syncing before them. She lacked very much design or color, or any real personality. What she did have the power to do, however, was to Animus Hack. It was her that had too separate him and the Preacher the day they fought and she had the power to terminate any of them on the spot.

She wasn't well liked.

"_Character Selection in progress." _She mumbled, as the Player could not hear her at this point.

As they were selected, the killers around The Huntsman greyed out, indicating that they were already selected. Looking at himself, he saw that he was already selected as well, his skin and closed turning grey.

"Aw, someone took the Huntsman." The Player's voice echoed in the room, her comment making the Huntsman smirk.

"Yeah, I took him." A male's voice, one of the Player's friends, echoed in response.

"And I took the Robber." Another friend said.

"Yeah, thanks guys. Now I have to pick one of the other fourteen badasses. Huzzah for first world problems!"

"The best problems!"

"You mean like losing your TV?"

"…I miss my sexy TV."

The Player laughed, "I know you do. I'm picking the Night Stalker."

The Huntsman looks at the Night Stalker, who was in the corner, slashing two knives together quietly. He was avoided by everyone, including the Huntsman, who found him rather unsettling, even if he was a brother. He stood up, sheathing his knives and walking to the woman. The Lady Maverick whispered something to the Redcoat, making her chuckle. The Stalker turned slightly, looking at them, and chuckled as well.

Maverick raised an eyebrow, "What are you laughing at, Stalker?"

"I was just imagining how much more beautiful you'd be if you smiled more." The Stalker seemed to drag his words, "a big, bloody smile from ear…" he traced a line from his own ear to the other, "to ear." He chuckled, then turned, and synced away with the woman.

The Lady Maverick seemed thoroughly disturbed, "Seriously, don't you people have mental checks in your Creed?"

The Sharpshooter was laughing along with the Robber, "What made you think any of us, all of us, were sane?"

The Huntsman smiled a little. He didn't know how much of him was left, or how he would've been without his life of nobility. He didn't care much either. He was the best, and brightest, killer in the room.

And anyone that challenged him was dead before they could blink.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hey guys. This came from a weird dream I had. I appreciate feedback, so send a review, even if you don't have much to say. I'll probably continue this even if I don't get reviews, but it would be nice to know if people are enjoying this.**_

Thanks.

**Chapter 2**

The Night Stalker sat still in his usual corner, glancing among the occupants of the small sync room.

Tensions grew cool for the next few days, as the separate organizations were back to talking amongst themselves. The Night Stalker glanced at The Lady Maverick, who looked back with an icy glare and a sneer.

What he wouldn't give to make that Templar _smile. _

The Stalker grinned a bit beneath the bandana that covered his mouth at all times. What he wouldn't give to make all The Templars smile. Yet, he unfortunately would never be able to give enough.

The Sharpshooter interrupted his murderous thoughts, "Hey, what's up with you?"

Still smiling, though it was hidden from his fellow Assassin, the Stalker turned to him. It was odd for someone to ask him anything, or even talk to him really. Then again, the Sharpshooter didn't really know that.

He was rather new.

In fact, he was _very _new. The Player had just downloaded him into the system. While he was usually only there when a particular friend of the Player's was online, he would now sync in just like the rest of them…as well as The Redcoat.

Joy.

Yet, the Stalker didn't mind the ranger as an addition. He lacked the cockiness of most of his brothers. However…the fact that the man could stay in the woods so long was beyond him. The Stalker preferred the cramped, shadowed allies of the cities.

The Sharpshooter repeated his question, but the Stalker was not listening or really looking at him. His mind was wondering to that place even he couldn't quite explain. Most would consider it a dark, twisted and disturbing place, but not him.

The place was his safe haven.

He faintly heard the Sharpshooter repeat his question for yet a third time, and the Carpenter cutting him off, "Don't bother, lad, he's a bit…off."

"Well that's not nice to say about a brother," The Sharpshooter replied with a bit of a joking attitude, "What's wrong with him?"

"I honestly can't answer that question. He's just got somethin' wrong up here." The Carpenter tapped his own head, "I wouldn't pry too much if I were you, unless you want an iron hook in your jaw."

"Ah," The Sharpshooter said as if gaining an important revelation, "Going for the mysterious and spooky approach on the whole 'cold-blooded killer' thing, huh?" He directed the question at the Carpenter, but glanced sideways at the Stalker, who simply smiled a little. It was stupid of the ranger to even try and figure him out.

The man turned, "You're smiling, ain't ya?"

"Yes." The Stalker said simply, standing and stretching a little before leaning against the wall, which rippled a bit in response.

"Figured. Based on what I've heard, you think people wanting to know more about you is pretty funny."

"They are."

"How so?"

"They think they'll actually learn something."

"And what if they do?"

The Stalker was smiling again, "Killing time."

With a scoff and a shake of his head, the Sharpshooter turned away, "What a friendly guy."

"Death isn't friendly."

The Sharpshooter kept his back turned, "We all know that."

The Stalker sensed a very, _very _slight tension in the ranger's voice. On that note, he pressed forward, "I know it best."

A pause. Then the Sharpshooter turned again, and spoke, "Don't be so sure."

The Night Stalker was surprised to see a bit of fire in the eyes of the calm and collected ranger after the last comment. It was almost like he remembered something horribly tragic.

He loved stories like that. They were very adorable. Murders for vengeance, revenge, a noble cause…they were all cute as hell.

The Stalker killed once for vengeance, but that just got him started. He kept killing because it was fascinating seeing the faces of souls already damned leaving this life and being ushered to hell. They deserved no last rites, no final thoughts. Only if they died slow were they allowed to call out the name of their killer to the world…just like the Templar that called out The Stalker's real name.

He really detested his name, but also found it funny. Yes, his name was Joe yet he was a cold-blooded killer. What an interesting contrast.

He killed for blood, and maybe the Brotherhood, but mostly for the thrill. It was fun, exciting and never got boring…

"Does he chuckle to himself like this a lot?" The Sharpshooter's voice was rather distant in The Stalker's fragmented mind.

The Huntsman, in his usual bitter French accent, scoffed, "Get used to it. He's hopeless."

"Just like all you Assassins."

The Night Stalker snapped out of his rather bloody daydream and looked across the room at The Hessian. The Russian Templar had been quiet for a while. He seemed to spend his time just spinning his gun around the room, or watching him and the other Assassins like a guard dog. He was the one who had pulled The Commander and The Redcoat back during the little fight that happened a week before. The fact that he constantly stood straight and did everything with military efficacy made him one of the more obvious Templars.

The Sharpshooter, surprisingly, sprang to the defense, "What makes you an expert, soldier boy?"

The Hessian was unfazed, "I've killed enough to know you people inside and out."

"And I've killed enough Templars to know one from a mile away. What makes you so special?"

"I know order, Assassin." The Hessian's words were toxic, like poison in the veins.

"I know bullets," The Sharpshooter continued with a challenging tone, "Would you like one in your head?"

The Hessian smirked like he was accepting, but changed the subject, "Why do you think only the deranged, like that man over there, join you're cause?" He pivoted his head toward the Stalker, who had been watching the proceedings with minimal interest before he was mentioned. He wondered if The Sharpshooter would even try and retort. He sure wouldn't be able to know how to defend himself. In fact, he wouldn't have to. Three more seconds and there would be a claw in the soldier's eye, and a beautiful amount of blood spilling out of his head.

"Let me tell you a secret," the Sharpshooter's words once again snapped the Stalker out of his bloodlust, "The deranged man had more skills than you, who has less than my horse."

The Hessian smiled, "Did _your_ skills come in handy when your friends were burning alive?"

That one comment managed to catch the attention of every single Assassin and Templar. The Stalker looked at The Sharpshooter, whose eye twitched a bit, obviously trying to remain calm. He bowed his head a bit, his hat covering his eyes. The Hessian smirked victoriously.

The Robber blinked, and then spoke, "Come on, Caleb! You're going to let him talk to you like that—"

A gunshot sounded, echoing in the room. All heads snapped to The Hessian, who had stumbled back, the bullet having skid the top of his shoulder. His image fizzled a bit then became solid again.

The Sharpshooter held a smoking pistol, his eyes fixed into a glare that could immobilize any human, "How's that taste?"

_"LAAAAAAG," _The Player's voice echoed in the room, easily shattering the tension.

Another player responded, _"What happened?"_

_"No idea…I'm frozen in mid aerial kill though."_

The Night Stalker had failed to realize, after going in and out of reality, that another session had started, the Carpenter being absent for what had just happened.

Despite losing an opportunity to kill again, The Stalker was glad he wasn't picked. He didn't want to miss this.

The wound in The Hessian's shoulder healed in about twenty seconds of session time, allowing the Player to continue her game. Yet, the two opposing members still glared maliciously at one another.

"Would you have rather had it in your mouth?" The Sharpshooter's tone was cold as ice, "What's an overgrown nutcracker, like yourself, going to do about it if you can't kill me?"

"Can't kill you?" The Hessian laughed, pulling out a pistol of his own, aiming it point blank, "I beg to differ."

The Templar took his shot, but the Night Stalker threw it off, digging his iron claw into the soldier's just healed shoulder. Flipping him on his back, the Stalker spun the man around and left him bleeding on the ground. It was a move he used during sessions, but in this one he reluctantly aimed just above the heart.

The Hessian's image sputtered and blinked, the Player's voice echoing in the room once more, _"Aw man! What the hell happened?"_

_ "Uh…what did happen?" _a friend replied.

_"I don't know! I got kicked out of the session. Stupid Ubisoft servers…"_

The Carpenter synced into the room, stumbling a bit as he did, "Eh! What the hell—" He stopped, looking around the room, "Jesus…"

A woman appeared, often referred to simply as Animus. Although she usually lacked emotion, the Stalker could tell she was furious.

"I swear you people are like children! What—" She looked at the Hessian, "Whose done this?"

Naturally, everyone pointed at one another, even the ones that weren't even remotely involved. The Stalker, however, just raised his hand, smiling beneath his bandana.

Animus looked straight at him, annoyed, "Of course it was you. Just felt like nearly terminating someone today?"

"Oh, you don't know me that well, ma'am," He stepped forward, "I was simply defending a brother."

Animus scoffed, "Lies."

"He's telling the truth, actually," The Sharpshooter stood up, tracing the brim of his hate, "The Nutcracker over there tried to shoot me in the head."

Animus sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose, "This is the truth?"

The other Assassins nodded. The Templars, reluctantly, nodded as well. Animus could sense a lie from a mile away, so there was no point in pretending.

"Well you could have just knocked the gun from his hand. You know, something _subtle." _She helped the Hessian stand as she said this.

"I don't believe I know what that word means, ma'am," The Stalker replied in a low voice, thinking about how easy it would have been to just end it before she came.

"Clearly. Now I have to repair the damage _you _caused," She snaps her fingers, the Stalker's weapons vanishing, "No more weapons for you unless you're in a session." She turns, running into the Robber, "Out of my way, boy."

The Robber smiles, gently pushing past her, "Sorry lady, you just turned into me." He spoke innocently, looking at The Hessian, "You get better now. We'll all be _so _worried about you."

The Hessian muttered something bitterly under his breath in Russian, following Animus out. The Stalker didn't notice that though, as he was actually curious as to why The Robber looked so happy.

"She could've at least let me kick him in the head before she carted him out."

The Stalker was drawing a little smiley face in the blood on his arm as he turned to The Sharpshooter. He was a friend, maybe even a good one. The killer sat next to his brother, sighing, "What am I supposed to do without knives?"

The Sharpshooter smirked, handing two skinning knives to him, "Try not to hurt anyone else."

The Stalker's eyes lit up, grabbing the knives like a child grabbing candy. How he loved sharp objects. He sliced them together, chuckling a bit at the sound.

He was aware that his new friend had chuckled as well. There was a lot to say about a man that looked at a psychopath and decided: 'Hey, I'm going to talk to him.'

Maybe there wasn't, but it didn't really matter. The man had created a situation that allowed the Stalker to hurt someone with little punishment.

What a good friend.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Turns out my gamer friends that make small cameos here are enjoying the story. Don't worry; the plot is around here somewhere…  
There it is.  
Actually, it's right below you.  
Read on, my friends. **_

_**Read on and enjoy the shenanigans, and the drama, of our favorite killers. **_

**Chapter 3**

The Lady Maverick let out a small breath, listening to her heeled boots click against the cool metal of the hallway. The session she had just finished was a strange one. She'd never seen so many animus hacks being activated, especially with Animus limiting their use.

She wasn't thinking of much though. Her mind was still stuck on the annoying fact that that she got in second. One of the Player's friends seemed extraordinarily keen on constantly getting in first.

"_If I wasn't limited by the Player" _Maverick thought, "_There would be nothing left for her friend to play as." _

The Templar didn't blame the Player though. She could only control certain aspects in the art of killing. Frankly, the game gave its players a lot of advantages that weren't existent in reality. Teleporting and force fields gave them rather unfair escape routes. Yet, the game wasn't meant to be realistic; it was meant to be fun.

If only it was just a game to her.

As she returned to the room, The Maverick saw all the Assassins gathered in one place, talking to one another. Her curiosity made her move to the other end of the room, eavesdropping on the conversation.

Her brother sat among them, but wasn't saying much. He simply folded and unfolded his hands, muttering something under his breath. Such behavior was odd for him; he was usually the first to speak, especially if it was out of turn. He had been acting strangely lately, she had noticed. It annoyed her whenever he did that. She always felt this lurching feeling in her chest, tempting her to go to him, to ask what's wrong, to comfort him…

The she remembered who she was, who she had become. She had no sympathy for a brother that joined a false Creed, a Creed that didn't even care for him. If she had to kill him in the game forever, then so be it.

"Are you alright, sister?"

Maverick snapped out of her bitter thoughts to address her brother with a retort. At least, she had thought she heard his voice. Yet, the Redcoat was looking at her with a weird expression, "I said are you alright sister?" she repeated.

"Yes," Maverick quickly regained her poise, moving a strand of hair from her face, "I was just thinking."

"Well you certainly make some odd faces when you 'think'." The Redcoat chuckled, "But what their talking about is rather interesting."

"What were they talking about, exactly?" She asked, hating herself for being so distracted that she didn't even listen.

"You really were thinking hard weren't you?" The Redcoat laughed again, just to stop almost robotically and lower her voice, "They were talking about the sessions and all the supposed glitches that have been going on."

Maverick raised an eyebrow, "Isn't that something Animus should be worried about and not us?"

"I know, but don't you think it's rather curious?"

"I don't worry about such things."

The Redcoat scoffed, "Maybe you should pay more attention to what's going on around you."

"Maybe you should pay more attention to whose emotions you tread on, hon." Maverick smirked, "Or would you have rather had your skull cracked by that hulking Assassin over there?"

Sneering, the Redcoat turned and marched off with military efficiency. The brat was far too snarky for her own good. Such a child should never try to insult her clear superior. Although, her inquiry about the sessions was interesting. Out of the corner of her eye, Maverick saw the Huntsman who stood to be used in the next session.

"Good luck, Frenchy." Her brother yelled after him.

"Call me that again, boy, and we'll see who needs luck." The Huntsman retorted, leaving the room.

The smirk on her brother's face made Maverick quite suspicious. She knew that face well; it was the same one he had when he managed to steal food without getting caught. He was up to something mischievous, and she was going to find out what.

As a few moments passed, she watched her brother move to the corner of the room. He seemed to purposefully hide behind his fellow Assassins, making it exceedingly difficult for Maverick to see what he was doing. Yet, she saw him pull out the small cube they all carried with them, one that contained each of the abilities they could use. Such a device reminded Maverick of a Piece of Eden, yet just in looks. It simply morphed into the abilities chosen by the Player. It was nearly useless out of session, allowing only smoke bombs to be used.

Her brother, sitting down and leaning against the wall, flipped the cube in his hand while mumbling to himself. Maverick wondered why none of the people around him wondered what he was doing. Then again, none of them seemed to paying attention. She watched as her brother smirked, the cube his in his hand turning red. From that point on he seemed to just stare into space, occasionally seeming to speak to himself.

The Huntsman returned with a rather frustrated look on his face, "These glitches are starting to get annoying…"

"You seemed to think they were funny until they affected you." The Silent Shadow muttered. He certainly lived up to his name if it meant never talking.

"It _was_ funny, "Huntsman glared at the fellow Assassin, "it was funny because it was advantageous to the Player."

"Maybe you just weren't lucky enough." the Robber said with satisfaction dripping from his voice. He had a grin on his face that Maverick remembered well.

The Huntsman growled, "I don't need luck."

"You obviously did there." the Robber pressed on, seeming to be enjoying the moment.

Aware of the Huntsman rising anger, Maverick found herself interrupting before she could stop herself, "Brother, your power trip should end right about now."

The Robber turned to her now, "What are you talking about?"

"I saw you…hack your ability sets." She presses, "You were the one sending those Animus hacks, weren't you?"

Her brother was silent for a moment, aware that everyone was looking at him now. Maverick wondered if he would deny it; he normally would. He may be a good liar, but everyone in the room would be able to see through any trick he pulled.

Yet, he said something rather surprising, "So what if I did?"

The Redcoat was the first to respond, "What do you mean 'so what'? You were messing with the fabric of the game!"  
"Yeah…so what?" the Robber crossed his arms, "I mean, God forbid we don't have a little fun every once and a while. I didn't even do anything that spectacularly awful."

"Yes, in fact," Animus appeared, looking as angry as a program could be, "You did."

Despite everyone seeming to back up as she approached, the Robber stood his ground, his arms still crossed. Maverick felt the strong urge to pull him away, but resisted it. Animus wouldn't do anything too extreme. At least, she was silently hoping she wouldn't. Then again, if her brother continued to act like he was, he might not be around anymore.

"Really?" the Robber glared at the woman, "I swear you'd think looking at something for too long would be a serious issue."

Animus was not amused, she wasn't anything really, just cold and blank, "You stole those codes from me, the ones from Erudito I was going to correct."

"What? Me? Taking something that's not mine?" the Robber's voice dripped with resentful sarcasm, "Why would I do that-"

Maverick watched as her brother was flung against the far wall before he could finish his sentence.

"Don't you _dare_ speak to me that way." Somehow, Animus still managed to keep the same cold monotone.

The Robber attempted to pick himself up, his image fizzling in the process. He had felt that, despite them not being in a session. The Sharpshooter stepped toward him as if to help, but Animus was already in front of him, pushing him away, "Don't help him, or you'll be in the same position."

"He's just a kid, you know. He doesn't deserve this." The Sharpshooter managed to stay calm, despite the dangerous mine field he was stepping into.

Animus glared at him, "That doesn't matter. If he were ten years old I'd do the same thing. You know why? Because he is not really here. _None of you_ are really here. You're just memories compiled to create an image. That's it; nothing more and nothing less."

"We were real once," The Sharpshooter said nonchalantly, "Well, except for you. You're a bitchy prison warden."

The Player interrupted the response of Animus, "_I've got to go guys. I have to wake up early tomorrow."_

"Alright, later."

"Bye!"

Animus let out a breath, "I'll deal with you both later, if I must."

Yet, despite the room around them darkening, no one was synced away. Maverick's eyes went straight to her brother, who held the cube in his hand, which emitted a soft red glow in the room.

"What are you doing?" Animus turned to the Robber, her voice having a small amount of panic, "Stop…!"

"Shut your God damned mouth already…" the Robber muttered a barely audible statement, towers of red and black suddenly surrounding Animus like a hack in any session. She immediately fell to her knees, holding her head and fizzling in and out.

The surrounding occupants were stunned, including Maverick, not really knowing how to respond. Maverick turned to her brother, who held the cube loosely in his hand, knowing all too well what he just got himself into.

"…Fillian…" The Carpenter slowly stepped toward the Robber, "Drop it now lad, you've gone too far."

But the Robber was shaking his head, backing away from him, from everyone, "I…" he didn't complete his sentence. Instead, he ran off toward the wall, which collapsed as he approached it, disappearing.

No one wanted to follow. No one even knew where he went. All Maverick knew is that he wouldn't survive another night.

Animus, still kneeling on the ground, growled. Her voice changed multiple times in pitch and tone as she spoke, "_Someone get him…now!"_

"We don't know where the hell he even went!" The Strong Man spoke first, "Let alone how to get him back!"

Animus whipped around, facing the Lady Maverick, "_You." _She smiled and oddly sweet smile, "_You go get your dear brother. I don't care how you do it." _

Maverick really didn't want to, but she feared of what would happen if she didn't. For once she had to swallow hard and nod, taking on a serious façade. If she managed to bring her brother back, maybe she could convince Animus to let him live.

Yet, deep down, she knew he was dead and gone.


End file.
